Turning
by janeandrosiethings
Summary: A difficult posterior birth comes at a pivotal moment in the relationship of the recently-wed Turners. Established Turnadette, eventual M.
1. One (Jane)

**[A/N Once upon a time in Liverpool, there was a girl who wrote a play while she was sick in bed at university. Everyone loved it, including the guy who auditioned to play the lead role. Reader, she MARRIED him. Fast forward several years and this girl became the badass lady screenwriter who somehow got herself wrangled into writing 'Call The Midwife'. She quickly grew to love it (the fact that she's so damn good at it helped too) and, somehow, her loveable disaster of a husband again had the chance to play one of her characters. She, of course, gave him a, slightly autobiographical if you ask us, love interest.**

**and that is how I (Jane) met Rosie. TURNADETTE BROUGHT US TOGETHER. HEIDI WHAT YOUR BRAIN HATH WROUGHT.**

**So, anyway, at one point Rosie challenged me to write her a rather difficult delivery. In return, she promised to write the other half- the afterwards half- aka the scorching hot adrenaline smut part. We think some of it might even be good.**

****fyi- this takes place in our imaginary land where Shelagh returns to midwifery and suffers no ill-effects from her bout with TB** **

**Chapters will appear at various intervals until Christmas. Just because we like to torture you all that way. *evil cackling* ...Or possibly that it isn't quite finished yet.**

**We make no apologies for the following. Reviews/Turnadette wedding spec/General fangirling are welcome!]**

* * *

"Well done last night, Nurse Turner, Doctor Turner."

As she walked away, Sister Julienne was slightly mystified by how vehemently red her former sister had just blushed at what was an often bestowed affirmation.

Surely everyone had heard about the triumph of the previous evening; surely that hadn't been the first praise either of them had heard today from a colleague. And there was nothing inappropriate in-

Oh. Possibly_ that _was something she shouldn't dwell upon, she thought, schooling a smirk down the front of her habit as she examined the chart for her next patient.

In the privacy of the parish hall kitchen Shelagh actually had to cover her face with one hand for a moment in utter embarrassment at the direction her thoughts had just instantly taken at the nun's compliment.

Patrick, recovered from his own moment of shock, choked a hearty laugh into his tea at his young wife's bewildered expression. Her hand moved, hearing his reaction. She shook her head at him in mock reproval even as her parted lips formed a rather wicked grin of her own, which she then hid behind her own yellow teacup as Nurse Miller strode into the narrow sunlit room.

Shelagh couldn't stop smiling for some time; because, despite the momentary mortification, the images her mind had betrayed her with were so exquisitely damning.

Old buttons sewn back into place with new thread, tangled bedsheets in serpentine twists, fingertips tracing the light purple marks on her hip in the early morning sun; these luminous visions would float dreamily about her all day long- swirling languidly through her consciousness like dust motes in daylight, warming her porcelain skin.


	2. Two (Jane)

A baby wailed over the previous evening's news bulletin, his cry echoing across the hallway to where Nurse Turner sat bone idle by the telephone, feet up on a short stool, seemingly unperturbed by the noise. It was rather out of the ordinary for the constantly bustling former sister, but she had eaten rather too much at dinner and didn't currently feel like budging another inch.

"You too, Shelagh?" commented Trixie rather heavily as she passed through to grab her leather case and the berry colored felt cap that sat atop it. "Gosh, if Mrs. B keeps spoiling us like that, I'm going to have a perfectly wretched excuse to buy that new girdle I've been eyeing in the Fredericks catalogue." She giggled to herself and scuttled off to find her wayward cardigan; Shelagh's raised eyebrow watched her go.

Head propped on an elbow, Nurse Turner closed her eyes and took in all the sounds around her, as she used to do during the Great Silence, to clear her mind in preparation for prayer. She would listen to absolutely everything, hear every possible sound, then turn her focus inward and shut out all outward noise, entering a tranquil meditative state. The freedom of this exercise had been her only joy during those long months in the sanatorium, save for an hour's distraction when letters and visitors arrived. Her joy was complete now, but she still amused herself with the activity, especially recently, as Timothy was learning a new violin piece.

She remembered the day Patrick had discovered her at it, quite by accident. She'd left the bedroom door open as she sat on their bed, creating quiet, and he'd passed by unawares. Apparently he had called her name unsuccessfully - and even tried 'Sister Bernadette' - before shamelessly sneaking up on her and soundly kissing her. A shocking and new, but not unpleasant, way to end a meditation; proceeding directly into the very thing that now ranked above silence in her view, the love of her husband. He asked what on earth she was up to, and she'd explained. Patrick had been fascinated by the idea, and wanted to try for himself, but they only made it about ten minutes before getting, well, rather distracted.

At Nonnatus that evening she inventoried her aural surroundings. There was the faint clinking of dishes and the slosh of suds which was sometimes accompanied by Sister Evangelina's booming chastisement of Sister Monica Joan for splashing water down the front of her habit or some such nonsense, but tonight the air was void of both her boisterous commentary and snatches of mystical poetry. Jane must be doing the washing up.

Little Fred's wailing was winding down, but she had no doubt it would wind itself right back up within fifteen minutes or so. He had a cold or was about to get one; she could hear it in his wee snuffling breaths.

There was Trixie's familiar voice. "Chummy? Have you or baby Fred seen it? I'm so late already! I told Mrs. Wetherington I'd be back to check on her by eight and it's nearly that now."

And Chummy's aristocratic accent, which Shelagh had always strangely envied. "Well you can't go without Trixie, you'll be absolutely frigid. It's only just Febuary. Why don't you take mine? Here. Freddie and I will make do with his splendid afghan."

''Oh ta! Owe you one Chums."

Light steps hurried out the door. With the loud wooden sound of its closing, and the metal rasp of the latch, Shelagh began shutting noises out, replacing them with the sound of her own heartbeat. The clinking of porcelain and metal in the kitchen was rejected, and Chummy's mothering murmurs across the way became the sound of her own breath. Shelagh could make her own silence. It came from deep within her, from the places no one could reach. She was safe here, here she let herself roam, and far from prying eyes or gossip or self-consciousness, she could simply be. Her thoughts could wander, untested by reality, uninfluenced and instinctual.

She yelped sharply as the phone rang and then blushed a deep red and rubbed a palm over one eye as she giggled at herself, glad nobody had been passing in the hall. It was not the first time today she had been interrupted by a telephone. The first was this afternoon, with Patrick; she flushed hotly to remember. As the phone trilled once more, the memory of the cold press of his metal desk ghosted over the backs of her thighs. It was not anything out of the ordinary that had begun it either, just a loving look of gratitude for the lunch she'd brought him; but she had felt something new pull at her, something that rose within her and pushed out against her skin, urged her to move. So she had given herself into it in some small measure, and it had been wonderful. She hoped she hadn't been too bold, but she could feel something revolutionary on the horizon and was desperate to understand it. The phone trilled a third time, reminding her that not only had she not had a chance to speak to her husband since slipping down from her perch on his desk, bewildered to remember the unlocked door and the duty that they had forsaken in their momentary madness, but that she was forgetting that duty once again. She snatched the heavy receiver off its cradle and held it to her ear, listening intently as she picked up a pencil and readied herself to note the address when it was given.

"Nonnatus House, midwife speaking."

There was a sigh of relief on the line. "Yes, hello. My wife, uh, she doesn't know I am calling, but I am very worried for her." The man's voice was typically baritone, yet did not hold the same harsh strength characteristic of the men of Poplar. It was a deeply kind voice with some sort of untenable light accent lingering within. Currently though, it wavered with nervousness. "She -had this number from when our other children were born, and I- I need your help."

"All right." Shelagh said, turning on her professionalism. "Let's start with names. This is Nurse Turner. May I ask who is calling?"

"I am Nicholas Ochir, my wife, she is called Margriet."

"Ochir? You mean Griet Ochir? You live in, uh," Shelagh tapped her toes twice, recalling Sister Evangelina's oft told tale, "Along the Cut, yes? In um, Dod Street."

The man was sounding more and more relieved as he confirmed the house number with her.

"Now Mr. Ochir, what exactly is wrong? You say you are worried for your wife?"

"She is pregnant again; but something has been different this time. She said something about her back hurting yesterday, and she doesn't ever complain. Earlier tonight she nearly fell over for the pain. I had no idea how bad it was. She did not tell me."

Shelagh had been scanning the names on the files as he finished speaking, and was not seeing anything in the spot reserved for last names beginning with 'O' except for the false file Sister Monica Joan had added a few weeks ago under the name Ovid, which was filled with rather fascinating excerpts from the _Metamorphoses_ in flawlessly transcribed latin script. However, that wasn't exactly going to prove useful at the moment.

"Mr. Ochir, I don't see a file for your wife anywhere. Has she been coming to the clinic at all?"

"No she didn't bother this time. I tried to persuade her, but..."

Shelagh could feel her heart picking up pace now, nervous energy, yet excited in anticipation of being able to help. It was the same with every impending delivery. "I understand, Nicholas. Can you guess at how long she has been pregnant? Seven months? Eight?" She heard him counting back under his breath in a language she did not recognize, but the universal inflection of numerals was obvious enough.

"Eight and probably a few weeks? I'm almost certain. She said she thought she might be going into labor this morning, but then the backache started again and she blamed it on that. She's fighting back, not crying out, and don't think she's slept in days. I can tell- I'm afraid for them both."

Shelagh had a good guess of what the problem was, though she very much hoped she was mistaken. Her voice lost some of its dignified medical professional veneer as she left that behind for what was, underneath, the candor of an utterly devoted midwife. "Nicholas, before anything else, I want you to know that you've probably just saved the life of your child. I am going to call the Doctor and we will be around absolutely as soon as we can. Griet needs your help right now, even if she might not think she does, so you must try to convince her to do what I am about to explain..."

When she had finished instructing the husband, all the while hoping he was capable of what she was asking, she pressed a finger on the receiver, cutting off the call, and immediately rang the Turner household. She still sometimes had trouble believing the familiar number was now her own.

"Patrick," she breathed the second the call connected.

"Shelagh. What's happened?" His concern was evident; there was no way she would tie up the line if it wasn't absolutely necessary. He listened for any hint of real worry in her voice.

"Love, I need you to come get me, I'll explain in the car. We're headed to Dod Street. I think it's a posterior. I'm going to need somebody strong for this patient." He could almost hear her grin down the line as she delivered her parting shot. "...and Sister Evangelina is out on a call."

It wasn't as if Nurse Turner was always physically stronger than her patients; many times she was, many times she wasn't. Usually it wasn't necessary, but then she had the suspicion that nothing much about this case would be classifiable as 'usual'. She stood by the phone and thoroughly re-checked her medical bag, needing something to occupy her hands as she counted down the minutes that it would take Patrick to get to her.

**[Reviews are like S3 Turnadette kisses...basically we'll die without them]**


	3. Three (Jane)

**[THE XMAS SPECIAL TRAILER IS MY EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW. Oh, and reviews do motivate us to finish this endeavor *hint*]**

* * *

Exasperated yet amused, she sighed as he got out of the car to open the passenger door for her. "The chivalry can wait, we've got more pressing matters!"

"I hardly think a few seconds of appreciating my wife is going to go amiss," he jibed at her with a little smirk as he put the MG in gear, and then leaned over to press his lips to her cheek. She let him, then swatted him away with a small laugh and then an acknowledging glance, knowing distinctly that he wasn't just referring to the car door. Shelagh felt oddly giddy; he wasn't apologizing for their earlier encounter, but galvanizing it and building upon it, which somehow filled her absolutely to bursting with confidence. What on earth had she started?

"So, patient's name? What did she say when she called?"

His questions shook her from the galloping direction her thoughts were headed. "The patient's name is Margriet Ochir, but it was her husband Nicholas that phoned. He's worried about the amount of back pain she's been experiencing, and apparently ignoring. He mentioned that she thought she was in labor this morning, then reconsidered when her back began to hurt even more."

Her husband had cottoned on quickly, "...and you think her pain is masking the labor," he mused.

Shelagh nodded even though he wouldn't see it. "She hasn't been in for clinic appointments all through this pregnancy, so nobody would have noticed, or been able to help her reposition the baby. I just hope we aren't too late, but I think we may have enough time- Mr. Ochir didn't mention her waters having gone and husbands always tend to bring that up if they witness it."

"That they do." he chuckled softly, "But why the cavalry?" he questioned, motioning to himself. "You've done posteriors solo before, Shelagh, and brilliantly, I might add."

"Not like this one," she demurred with a little smile. His trust in her abilities could have come off as flattery, had they been any other two people, but she was certain he meant every word. "Do you remember the christening party when Sister Evangelina shared her 'Top Ten'? When Chummy and Nurse Lee were hysterical over that one about the Leighton triplets and the Labrador puppies?

"...and they ended up with punch all down the front of Trixie's dress? Yeah."

"One of them was about a woman who Sister Evangelina calls 'The Amazon'."

He couldn't recall it.

"Well, apparently she towers over all the men of her neighborhood, including her small Eastern-looking husband, and is probably stronger than any of them. Her first child was born about ten minutes after Evangelina got there, and she said the woman didn't scream once. She said she barely even broke a sweat! The second, Evangelina missed entirely. Griet didn't call her until her waters had already broken, and by the time she had biked over, Griet already had her husband giving their healthy little girl a bath and offered the Sister a celebratory arm wrestle with her tea."

Patrick laughed. "I can't believe I forgot that one. I'm assuming she took her up on it. Who won?"

"Margriet did," Shelagh grinned widely. "Sister Evangelina said she'd never been so happy to feel useless. But you see why I'm concerned, if her husband says she's actually crying out in pain."

"I do." Her husband sobered quickly and turned his concentration back to the darkening streets.

"I told him to try and get her to sustain knee-chest position until we get there, but I have no idea if he's been successful. She may have just waved him off," she mused quietly. "Oh, and what did you tell Timothy before you left? Is he going to be all right?"

"I put in a call to my mother-in-law, she said she'd come round in an hour or so, make sure he'd got his studies done, and take him home for the night so as to feed him properly. Since you were out."

If Mrs. Parker's first joy in life was doting on her grandson, Shelagh thought, teasing her son-in-law probably could be ranked a very close second.

They pulled up to number 22, and Shelagh heard the front door open as Patrick was retrieving his bag from the boot. She turned and saw Nicholas Ochir step out into the lamp-lit street with a hagridden look, a woman's anguished cry escaping behind him through the open door. Shelagh found herself unable to tear her eyes from him for a few long moments, but a neighbor's yell from the doorway of number 24 brought her back to herself at once.

"Oi Ghengis! Your woman gonna scream the whole place down all night? I hafta ship out early y'know!"

Blinking twice she shut her mouth, shook her head and turned very pink indeed, not daring to even glance at her husband. She wasn't sure if he had noticed her immediate reaction to the sight of Griet's husband, but to be honest, she was rather embarrassed enough at herself. She had just caught herself actively gaping at a man for the first time in probably fifteen years.

She wasn't sure if it was giving up her vows or becoming a newlywed that had made her slightly more aware of men in general, but she was definitely aware of this one. Nicholas Ochir looked as if he had stepped directly out of Sister Monica Joan's _Tales of Marco Polo_, with skin the exact color Sister Julienne liked to take her tea. Well muscled forearms were revealed out of rolled up light blue shirtsleeves, and he had just one too many buttons undone at his collar for Shelagh to reign in her admiration of the solid sinews of his neck beneath the unshaven rectangular jaw. The most striking feature however, were his dark almond shaped eyes. Since he didn't tower over her like most men, she had an excellent view of the distress within their mahogany depths.

The handsome stranger turned and yelled back. "Sod off Jenkins! She's in bloody labor! And I seem to remember my wife making you holler something awful when she pinned you two weeks back for cheatin' at darts!"

Nicholas ran his fingers through his already chaotic mess of black hair in frustration at his neighbor, and apologized for his language before inviting them in, asking first if either of them had ever met his wife.

"N- No," Shelagh answered when she had inwardly cursed at herself for stuttering as she crossed the threshold into the low front room, redoubling her effort to sound professional, "however Sister Evangelina did tell me about the deliveries of your other two."

He nodded, "Then you understand how, uh, not like her this is. Good." The bow of his full lower lip widened into a pleasant smile, and Shelagh suddenly became extremely interested in unbuttoning her coat.

Nicholas excused himself to Patrick, saying he needed to check on his other children upstairs. "She is in through the door off the kitchen, and she does know you are coming. She was off about not needing your help at first, but I think she's started to realize that something is not right."

Halfway up to the landing he paused, "Oh, and Nurse Turner? I couldn't persuade 'er to lay down like you said, I'm sorry."

She looked up and nodded civilly at him, and he finally, mercifully, disappeared. Patrick had his coat hung up already and walked through to the kitchen, but not without first turning and giving his wife a rather evil smirk, accompanied by a terribly significant wink. So he _had _noticed, she hesitated an instant, almost waiting for the wooden floorboards to swallow her whole. Oh lord, she could wring that man's neck sometimes, she thought as she hurried behind him.

Because that was the hazard of finding one's soulmate, she was quickly learning. As much as you began to understand them, they also set out to perfectly understand you.


	4. Four (Jane)

Sister Evangelina had not been mistaken. Griet Ochir could only be described as a latter-day Amazon, as even her figure stooped in pain was nearly taller than the window at which she stood. Her powerful fingers gripped the blue toile curtains like a vice, taught wrinkles of fabric shaping a sunburst around the curling fall of her yellow silk hair. The sight was breathtaking.

The door had been open, and Shelagh stepped inside softly, touching her motionless husband on the shoulder before he tried to speak. She could see that he was already at a loss for words.

Gingerly, she spoke. "Margriet, We're here to help you. Your husband told you we were coming?"

The long mane of platinum curls shook a silent affirmation, but she did not turn around. Shelagh set her bag onto the carpet where it would not make a sound, and tiptoed around the bed. She placed herself facing the window as well, keeping her peripheral vision on the small visible sliver of Griet's profile. She stood quietly and waited for an opportunity.

Patrick found himself astonished again at how easily she adapted to every birth he'd ever attended with her; not just the medical situation, but to the people involved, somehow knowing exactly how to reach them. He fidgeted, fingers desperate for occupation, or even just a cigarette. He would never reach that level of patience, it was something cultivated over years of monastic serenity. At moments like this, he did not feel her superior in years or her equal in experience. He had meant it when he had called her the officer. He focused on his wife, ready to react to whatever she required of him. It was no sacrifice; he loved to watch her. He was never more drawn to her than when she was working, the beauty of her ever-curious azure eyes as they took in everything, observed and catalogued every symptom. His desire for her in similar moments had already carried them away more than once in the semi-privacy of his office at the Maternity Home. She would always remind him sweetly of their location before any real lines were crossed - well, excepting this afternoon. What had been different today? Was she somehow growing bolder? Risking more? He hadn't the temerity to ask, and wasn't sure how he would even begin to broach the topic. Possibly the answer would reveal itself in time.

A floorboard creaked as their patient suddenly shifted her weight slightly. Shelagh could see the woman's knuckles turning white with the strain as her tall frame quivered, knees buckled a little, and Shelagh was certain of what she had already guessed. This was a contraction, not a bad backache. She reached up and placed her hand softly over the clenched fist.

"Please, Griet," Shelagh whispered. "I need you to help me. Your husband is very worried about you, and I am worried for your baby."

A choked sob, and the curtain was released. Shelagh took her by both hands and looked up into the taller woman's red rimmed blue eyes; she could see the fight in them, the strength. More than anything else though she saw fear. That was good, she could work with fear.

This was a woman who had hardly needed, or shown that she needed anyone else her entire adult life, and suddenly couldn't help herself. Feeling both powerless and exposed, Griet had simply retreated into herself and borne the pain, because it was all she knew how to do. Compassion rolled out of Shelagh in waves; she knew precisely what that felt like. They couldn't have been any more different to look at, but their inner lives ran along remarkably similar lines.

She squeezed her hands and then supported Griet's forearms as she helped her back up a step or two and sit on the bed. She tossed both her golden hair and an affectedly disinterested look over her shoulder at Patrick, who was still standing a little awkwardly in the doorway. Shelagh blinked hard, trying not to smile.

"This is my husband, Doctor Turner." She explained, and arched an eyebrow across the room. "He's here to help_ me_."

Patrick's eyes widened, catching her dismissal. "I'll, uh, just go put some water on then." He ducked out. Griet lay back very slowly, wincing and grimacing all the while. She let out a deep exhale, finally relaxing into the pillows, "You trained him well. I like that. Little thing like you."

Shelagh giggled despite herself and backed to the end of the bed. "Let's see if I can tell what's causing all this fuss, shall I?"

She crept into the kitchen minutes later, leaving Margriet in the position she had originally instructed her husband to get her into, and which actually even Shelagh had had trouble coaxing her into. She eventually challenged her to see how long she could sustain it, and that seemed to work well enough. She figured anyone who'd challenge a nun to arm wrestle had a mean competitive streak.

Patrick was actually boiling water in the kitchen, chatting amiably with Nicholas and of course smoking a Henley. They both extinguished their cigarettes as she entered, anxiously awaiting the diagnosis.

She updated her husband with a small nod. She'd been right. The fetus was facing the wrong way.

He ascertained as much and simply asked, "And the heartbeat?"

Her head cocked slightly to the side and he read 'steady, but rather indistinct' in the movement. He opened his mouth once more to ask about the positioning of the anterior fontanel, but she beat him with the answer.

"Between twelve and three. I've got her in position now- I'll check to see if he shifts every so often." She bounced once on her toes- expelling a little nervous energy- eyebrows raised in challenge, waiting to anticipate his next question and ready to jump ahead of it with an answer. Oh, she rather liked this new game. She'd have to remember to make excuses to bring him along to deliveries more often. Talking over old cases at dinner was nice enough, but this had a lovely immediacy to it, a bit of banter, a one-upmanship that was rarely appropriate with her sisters, and she found herself wanting more.

He lowered his head a little to gain better eye contact and squinted at her just slightly, even though she was across the room, trying to gain a step on her. "And the-"

"- membrane isn't ruptured." She finished for him, not adding "of course, silly. Or you'd already be calling for the flying squad," to the end; though she might as well have.

He smirked rather widely at her little victorious expression. His little officer. "So we have a suitable amount of leeway then. Perfect."

And there was the flirting again; Shelagh groaned internally. Why was she cursed with a man who had not a clue how attractive he was at completely inopportune times? She inclined her chin up slightly and thinned her lips at him in a warning, utterly contradicting the encouraging spark that reigned within her eyes.

Patrick shook his head at her antics almost imperceptibly, and turned to explain the situation to Nicholas, who looked predictably lost, not only by the terminology, but the lack of actual conversation. "The baby's head is backwards, you see, it's supposed to be born facing down, so the spine is along your wife's stomach." He held his hands up to illustrate, palm to palm, bending his fingers into a comfortable circle shape.

He flipped one hand and continued, "Right now this little guy is face up, so his spine is resting along your wife's and causing her a great deal of discomfort, but we'll soon get them both sorted."

Wading through a myriad of thoughts as the doctor explained, Shelagh momentarily reconsidered the two men before sidestepping back into the bedroom. The initial shock of Nicholas' appearance over, Shelagh could now see yet another jumpy husband fearing for his wife. She felt sorry for him, in his ignorance of childbirth, and apparently of being in charge of his own household. She met his somewhat shell-shocked gaze and gave him a little reassuring smile. At least he looked capably strong, in case they got desperate for an extra set of hands.

Patrick, by contrast, looked completely at peace. His ridiculous habit of slouching against kitchen countertops was infuriatingly endearing. She knew from experience, though, despite his slack posture, he was poised to react instantly whenever he was called upon. He was always ready to adapt, or to explain. Her caring sergeant.

* * *

**[Anyone else counting the HOURS until Xmas? Just us?]**


	5. Five (Jane)

"...because 'I think, I have two little'uns already what could possibly take me by surpri-'" Griet abandoned her words for another anguished cry, turning to muffle it into the pillow beneath her elbows. The contractions had become regular and deeply uncomfortable as she kneeled on the mattress. She grasped the iron bars of the bedstead, and Shelagh wouldn't have been surprised to see they'd been bent when and if she ever let go.

As she gently gathered Griet's gleaming hair back off her face in the amber lamplight, Shelagh decided to plait it loosely for her, and offered up encouraging words. "Just a little longer, and I'll see if the baby's turned himself around, okay? You're doing so well. Trust me."

She fastened the plait with a small pink ribbon she assumed must belong to the Ochir's little girl. Margriet lifted her head once more and leaned back on her knees. She took Shelagh's hand, dwarfing it in her ample grasp and looked her directly in the eye.

"You're a gentle one, like my Nick, and many may put their faith in you for that reason. But me, Nurse? I see steel in your eyes, and that- that's where I put my trust. You are strong inside. You'll see me and my baby right."

Through the cracked door, Patrick registered this exchange with a sideways quirk of his mouth. He knew a little of his wife's singular perseverance. She was certainly stubborn enough for any woman, even this woman three times her size. He wondered a little absently what it was like for her patients: on the receiving end of the immovable object that was Nurse Turner's determination. As much as he cherished her for her gentleness and silence, he loved her for that foundation underneath, the indefinable urge she possessed to conquer every opposition.

The mattress springs ground harshly, shaking him from his thoughts with a shudder, and seconds later Mrs. Ochir let loose with a wretched sound he hadn't heard the like of since the war.

He burst through the door as his wife was calling for him. "Doctor!"

Large hands grasped at both of her thin wrists as she turned to Patrick with slightly wild eyes full of adrenaline. The adrenaline he could explain, but the intensity of her gaze was focused on him now, not her patient. She needed him, she had called for him, but underneath Nurse Turner requiring the medical skill of Doctor Turner lay a deeper, frustrated longing. To his own shock, he recognized it; this same ache had wavered between them, unspoken, since the night they delivered the Carter girls, perhaps even longer.

"No change, fully dilated, and the waters could go any second. We need to turn the baby by hand." She looked between her husband and her patient. "All three of us."

He was prepared within seconds. Griet's contraction lessened precipitously as Shelagh watched him, distracted thinking how to best strategically position them both. She already saw the obvious solution, and it caused her to swallow heavily. She would do whatever was necessary, of course she would, but being forehead to forehead with Patrick through a potentially dangerous delivery when she was already wading waist deep through this, whatever this was, was too much too soon. She hadn't been able to name it yet; out of ignorance or fear of what meaning a name could lend to these emotions, she didn't have time to consider. Right now, that steel that Griet had spoken of would have to see her through. She had a duty, and nothing else mattered.

Her wrist, released suddenly from the iron grip of her patient, flew back and knocked against the bed-frame, jarring her into action. Moving to face downwards over the rounded height of the amazon's stomach, to face her husband, she had the fleeting thought that a nasty bruise would show up there tomorrow. And probably on her forearms too, but that happened often enough.

Bruises, like babies and blood, were among the midwife's stock in trade. They were marks of love and shared agony, the very stuff of life.

"Put your arms up on the frame and just hold on tight, okay, Griet?"

A grimace turned into a gasped acknowledgement as Griet did as she was instructed. Then, certain of her first patient, she turned her head to see what was being done about the second.

She nearly bumped noses with Patrick, who was ascertaining the best angle to brace his arms to turn the baby's head against the force of the mother's contraction. His eyes flicked up to meet hers and their sudden heat sent her heart into overdrive, just as she had predicted. This kind of tension wasn't by any means new, it had simmered perpetually just under the surface since they'd become engaged - and, if Shelagh was honest with herself, since the day he'd first kissed her hand. It was a lovely shimmering thing, their attraction, causing bursts of passion to bubble over at different times. One or two rather inappropriate moments, actually; she blushed once again at the unbidden memory of his lips against the hollow of her throat and the warning ring of the telephone. He was still searching her face, and everywhere his gaze lingered she recalled the sensation of a kiss. A cloud of charged current primed to spark into flame hung thick and heavy in the space between them. It was like the meeting of water and electricity; sparks skittered along the surface, snapping into the air. She longed to lean into it, like she had in his office earlier that same afternoon, but feeling the two dependent heartbeats of mother and baby beneath her palm, she moved back a little and allowed the tension to dissipate.

Patrick's eyes traced the contours of her face at close quarters, lingering on her parted lips as she bit lightly into the bottom one; she exhaled, no longer concentrating on her partner, but on her patients. He noticed, with a strictly male satisfaction, that from this angle he could see he had indeed left a mark beneath the high collar of her nurse's uniform during their clandestine little encounter. He wondered if she knew it was there.

Griet's next contraction was not long off, and as she sensed it coming Shelagh looked for reassurance in her husband's green eyes. "Ready?" she asked on a shallow breath, nearly a whisper, not sure if she was really speaking to him or to her own reflection within their depths. She may not have even been asking about the baby at all. The next day, and for many afterwards, she would look back on that murmured query and wonder if what she had really been asking for was permission to follow her own instincts, wherever it was that they might be leading her.

He winked at her once more, only slightly less dauntlessly than before. "When you are, Nurse," he confirmed, wishing more than anything in that instant that it wasn't completely insane to passionately kiss his wife in the middle of a high-risk birth.

She fought both the familiar urge to roll her eyes and an unfamiliar new one: to pin him to the ground beneath her and make him very sorry indeed for distracting her mid-delivery. At some point, she'd have to investigate the origin of the latter. Instead, she remained content with the fact that he seemed so eager in anticipation of the maneuver they were about to try. It was only a little unorthodox, and it felt correct.

"Griet?" Shelagh called over her shoulder, calmly giving a few last instructions. "Hold on and try not to arch your back. I'm going to steady you this way as Doctor Turner turns the baby's head the other. When you feel the water break, I'll tell you to push."

There was an almighty tug-of-war as the contraction cascaded through. Shelagh forced herself to ignore the volume of Griet's tortured wail, save for a spare glad thought that she was finally releasing the pain. Instead she fixed her eyes on the strain in her husband's forehead, and saw the instant he had succeeded. It was so easy to tell with him; his expression as he was absorbed by work gave him away at every turn. This, she flushed slightly to remember, also applied to him in other situations. He pulled his hands free, grabbed at his bag, returned and immediately ruptured the membranes. Shelagh released her hold on the mother's opposite hip as Griet gasped, gathering her breath.

"Push now, Mrs. Ochir!" Patrick encouraged her, capturing his wife's eyes for a split second, offering both congratulation and something that could have been enticement. It was so quick she could almost have missed it, but was ecstatic she hadn't as she felt its ardor and admiration course over the entirety of her skin, raising every hair on her arms in cold gooseflesh.

"Hard as you please, Margriet!" was demanded once more, and it was done. The amazon cry that ensued was not made in the torment of pain, but in triumph over it.

Doctor Turner grinned up at the two women moments later as the recalcitrant infant was brought into the world with a high-pitched yowl. Shelagh felt the entire house breathe a deep sigh of relief as the newborn was swaddled and handed up to lay on mother's chest.

"It's a little girl." Pronounced Patrick, "Headstrong and hearty."

Griet looked down to him with tears in her blue eyes, "Will you go tell Nick?" she asked quietly, in a more tender voice than he had previously assumed her capable of. He agreed, glad to step out for a minute; he definitely needed one to re-piece his thoughts. He'd begun quite a game with his wife tonight, nothing he'd ever experienced during a delivery before. _That_ certainly wasn't in any of his medical textbooks. Just before he left he saluted his wife with two fingers as he mouthed "Officer Turner" in her direction and held her in contemplation for a lingering moment as he reached to swing the door shut.

She smiled at the little shared joke and a thrill ran the length of her spine at that particular memory, just as it always did, but tonight there was an accompanying heat, a flare of passion in the intensity of his gaze. No one else could look at her with those eyes - those eyes that now knew her so completely. Together they were two mirrors held up to reflect one another. Somehow their respective limitations added up to a private infinity, a universe all their own, no matter where or what they were in this one.

* * *

**[A Henley for your thoughts?]**


	6. Six (Jane)

**[Last Jane chapter! Then there's on we wrote tandem- after that I set the infamous Rosie loose on all of you with the promised 'M'. Let me know what you think!]**

* * *

The two women spoke softly over the gurgling of the little girl as they took care of the afterbirth and made the situation a little more presentable before packing up the Turners' respective medical bags. Shelagh let Griet know that someone would be around the next day to check up on them.

"I think maybe Sister Evangelina is on rounds tomorrow." They shared a grin. "... oh, and don't worry about problems if you become pregnant again. After a backwards head like this one, the next is like to be born if you sneeze hard too near your time."

Griet laughed heartily as a soft knock was heard on the door. Shelagh welcomed Nicholas in amid his tears and thanks and nodded a silent farewell to her patient, who held her gaze for a moment in that spirit of mutual understanding belonging solely to women. She certainly had a new favorite delivery story to share with her colleagues.

Patrick waited for her by the front door, coat already held open for her. Slipping her arms into it, she turned and he pulled it closed with a light kiss to her forehead. It was a tiny moment of his care for her, one of hundreds in their past and thousands in their future, but she felt the full weight of its significance. He loved her so much it was miraculous.

She shivered unwittingly as his knuckles brushed the underside of her chin. They stepped outside and she leaned her back against the passenger door of that dear old car, breathed in deeply, and closed her eyes against the tidal flood of residual adrenaline as it coursed through her, heightening her awareness of everything from the damp midnight air as it dewed upon her skin to the the distant sound of the river as it lapped against its barriers. A door closed, and seconds later familiar hands fell softly to encircle her waist through the thick fabric of her coat. She relished the sensation as her husband embraced her and stooped to lean his forehead against hers in affirmation.

He whispered low and soft into their shared breath, "Well done, my love. Well done."

She shuddered again as she ran hot and cold in the onslaught of sensation, unable to get a firm handle on herself. A switch had been flipped somewhere tonight, turned on - or possibly off? She hardly knew. Certain of nothing but him, she was rapidly spinning out into a semblance of something beyond want or need, and she savoured its intensity. It was an intoxicating new level of something; something like - freedom. There it was. She was free. She had only needed to relax into it, to get her head turned the right way around. Her time spent reaching farther and farther into their shared world to the exclusion of all else had finally had the same effect as her meditation. His arms held her as firmly as hers did him; they formed the edges of that same space in between. Only she now recognized it for what it was: an infinite space of possibility.

Shelagh raised her hands and threaded her fingers into his hair in momentary defiance of the mounting tide of realization and desire - these swells that crossed one another, amplifying. She anchored her soulmate to her for a long moment before she whispered back to him through the waves.

"Patrick. We have to go home. Please."

He pulled back a little and reached behind her to open the door, helping her into the passenger seat. "Yes, darling, you must be exhausted."

The boldness leaped up in her once again as she watched him walk briskly around the hood and take his place behind the wheel. She grinned devilishly at him in contradiction, and watched with delight as her provocation took its intended effect.

"No, Patrick. Not exhausted."

His green eyes flashed at her, a momentary inferno, and then fluttered shut as he breathed, slow and deep, holding very, very still in the silence of the car. The air was instantly charged once more, every particle ready to ignite at the slightest provocation; neither of them moved.

"Well," she murmured at last, her breathing heavy and irregular.

"Indeed." His own voice, scarcely louder than hers, sent tremors through her from top to toe, and she had to clamp her hands around the seat to stop herself- from what? Throwing herself bodily at him? Right now, she thinks, in this moment, she might have.

He turned to look at her, suddenly serious. "Shelagh. Whatever this-" He swallowed heavily. "I'm here. Just tell me what you need."

She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, her fingers clutching the seat with white-knuckles. "Patrick." Her voice was as unsteady as she felt. "Just- just take me home. Please."

Jerkily he nodded, reaching for the steering wheel, hands shaking, lungs fighting for air.


	7. Seven (JaneRosie)

Driving home through the dark streets of Poplar had never been Patrick Turner's favorite activity- as it usually meant he had missed something or was late for something else. There was always a sort of desperation behind the wheel, and tonight was no different. Except tonight the source of that desperation sat within arm's reach, both the fuel to his fire and its eventual unavoidable absolution, and it was slowly burning him alive.

A private circle of hell just for him, an inferno of not only temptation but, as time went on, doubt.

Did she mean it? Did she even know what she was asking? He hadn't misread her, and this afternoon- The fire that raged behind her eyes was proof enough of that. He couldn't help but imagine that he was destined to become some sort of offering before the night was through, burnt into embers, the ritual sacrifice demanded of a jealous god. And yet... though the fire he faced thrilled and terrified him in equal measure, he found that, for her, he would burn. Gladly.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he focused his entire being, while he still possessed it, into fulfilling her need and his - getting them home.

Shelagh couldn't open her eyes. There was too much to bear already. This was insane. How was it possible for one person to feel so much?

Desire was one thing, and she had had so much of it over the short month since they had been wed. It was blissful and beautiful and sweet, what they were together. They had learned one another, like any subject, with practice and careful consideration. What, then, was this? This drowning suffocation. It was violent and rapacious and threatened to tear her limb from limb, but she wanted it. More aptly she needed it, like she needed him, like air.

Her eyes snapped open. Air. She rolled the window down, allowing the mist and smoke from the river to rush into the stifling atmosphere of the car. She gulped in the cool wet air and though it did not quench her, she felt steady enough to chance a look to her right.

Patrick looked at her too. The breeze through the open window had called him out from the fiery furnace, as yet unburned. The green of his eyes held so many questions that she could not answer and the fire blazed up once more, but instead of scorching and destroying, the flame sent off lively showers of sparks between them. Shelagh laughed then, at herself, at the entire situation, mad with both joy and anticipation.

Patrick laughed at himself too and reached for her hand. The light grasp of her fingers and the damp constant breeze would help keep him grounded. And they did; until he parked and turned off the engine.

The air stilled again and in defiance of its tranquility Shelagh bolted from the car. She walked briskly to the front door, arms crossed tightly, bracing herself, their security her last remaining weapon against the again swelling tide. She released one to reach for the door handle, only to realize that her husband had the keys. He was behind her now.

She looked at the door, the painted wood less than six inches from her face. She knew turning around would end her agony, but she couldn't do it. Moving one step to the left, she allowed him the space to unlock the door. He turned the handle and let it swing open, his body forming a question mark behind her, unmoving, offering her again whatever she needed from him. She could walk forward and he would not question her, she could suffer this agony, stuff it down, possibly never to feel it again, and he would never resent her. But that would be wrong. There was life here, potential, something that deserved to grow. Despite this decision, she still couldn't move. It was too much. She was completely overwhelmed by the intense emotional restriction that had been building all day. Being cut off in his office, being nose to nose with him during the birth, and all the frantic journeys her mind had taken in between, the feelings wove together and wrapped around her with a paralyzing pressure. Tears began to well up from nowhere at all, and she slammed her eyes shut.

He knew her, and for once he knew her a little better than she knew herself. He saw the single tear journey down her cheek and his heart clenched with the force of his empathy. She was struggling in vain, in innocence, and he could not bear for it to continue. He had faith in her. Patrick reached gently forward and cupped her chin in his fingers, turning her head to him. Her body rotated with it, and like tumblers in a lock, the movement freed her. She blinked up at him, wonder in her blue eyes as his thumb brushed the tear from her cheek.

His other hand found hers and brought it up to his heart, holding it there, intertwining their fingers.

The golden glint of her wedding band caught her eye in the low gleam of the porch light and she heard her own vows once more; they had echoed back to her many times in the past weeks whenever she looked down at the symbol of her marriage.

_With this ring I thee wed... _

It had felt very odd at first, that familiar weight on the opposite hand, but also felt essentially right, because it was a very different set of vows to which she had sworn herself.

_...with my body I thee worship._

There it was. Like a flash of lightning, the final insight. She was fighting something she had no reason to fight. Once again her stubbornness had blinded her to the obvious truth: all of this was inevitable. She marvelled at how many times she had heard those words, and never truly understood them until this very moment. She whispered the age-old phrases to him now, redoubling her vow, never to doubt them again. The awe that crossed his features was incomparable, and yet she knew he had somehow already understood this, had been patient while her body and spirit fought to fathom the welcomed, needed, _sacred _miracle in those words said so often by so many. There was no restriction on her at this moment that she had not put there herself.

He leaned in and pressed his lips reverently to her tearstained cheek, both sealing the promise and burning through everything that bound her. The flash of their incineration was instant and incomprehensible. Freedom replaced all restriction and the lavish abundance of possibility was intoxicating.

* * *

**[This one was written about half/half as I remember. Turnadette shippers I (Jane) salute you (-hoping you've enjoyed the beginning) and leave you in Rosie's 'capable hands'. No, not like that you creeps. **

**Hehe, in any case, onwards! **

**Chapters from this point will be rated-M. For realsies.]**


End file.
